“The only thing more pointless than spending 2 weeks getting licensed to jump solo from an aircraft at 14,000ft - is to pay for the privilege” - my thoughts, as I was hurtling towards earth at 120mph, abject terror freezing the spit in my throat, praying that none of the 73 possible things that can go wrong, go wrong, in the 40 seconds from now till safe deployment of my parachute...

Which makes you wonder why, at this precise moment, I'm signing an indemnity form for yet another Completely Pointless activity: wheely school. 

Like any sensible girl, I rang before booking: "Can you teach ANYONE to wheelie - even girls...in ONE day?" The voice on the other side didn’t miss a beat: "If you do what you are told, I guarantee you'll do it." came the confident reply.

Easy peasy then.

Things started going horribly wrong from the outset: from the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the students zipping up a set of tasty leathers over a tanned torso, rippling with muscle…For f* sake! Someone invited Vin Diesel!!

I was fervently hoping that my fellow students would consist mainly of useless, fat old bikers...and at least one without arms, giving me a small chance of not being the WORST PERFORMER of the day. And now THIS?!!

Having a Vin Diesel-lookalike on a course where you’re about to be deeply humiliated, your very core of timid, useless femaleness exposed – is like having Brad Pitt for a gynaecologist! And I’m not even wearing any MASCARA!!!!

I join the huddle of six students gathering around our wheelie guru and god: Jimmy Fireblade. (None of them, I ‘m sad to report, seemed to be missing any arms or legs, so I steeled myself for that familiar “Stupid girl, think you can play with the boys” sinking feeling)

Jimmy talk us through the mechanics of a wheelie and explain his method of teaching in about five minutes flat – and before I can worry whether my bum would look big on a Bandit – we are saddling up!

Jimmy personalises the height for each of our ‘training wheels’ (a nifty mechanism that cuts out the engine if you overdo the lift, avoiding you tipping over backwards). I eye him suspiciously whilst doing the blokes’ bikes – making sure he doesn’t give them some sort of advantage – who knows what these blokes will get up to, to make a girl look dumb!

And off we go! Starting with simple exercises, teaching us throttle control: the aim is to feel, without checking the clocks all the time, where the right revs are – WITHOUT OVERDOING IT.

Something which seems surprisingly hard for the boys. (I attribute it to too many hours spent over Playboy, exercising their throttle hands too vigorously.)

I, on the other hand, find it hard because of.. well, riding my bike like a girl: 6000rpm on my Duke’s clocks are the equivalent of 2,000ft on my altimeter: only to be reached in veeerrry gentle increments. I have NEVER seen my needle jump from 3,000 to 6,000 skipping all the little numbers in between – and very seldomly in first gear!

I realise soon enough, that 6,000rpm occurs at the point when my butt cheeks start clenching, so holding on to that knowledge, I get the whole clutch, brake, throttle routine down to a tee.

Thankfully, for safety reasons, the closest I ever go to HIM (you know… Mr “If-I-look-THIS-good-moulded-into-leathers-imaginewhat- I-look-like-WITHOUT-them”) or any of the other bikers, is the width of the landing strip. Or just far enough so I can eye them from a distance, frantically checking if they’re progressing any quicker than me.

Jimmy is an exemplary teacher, building up the exercises along with your confidence, and before I know it, my front wheel is doing little baby pops off the road. Heeeeehaaaa!!!

I notice with utter joy, that I was keeping up with the others – and dare I say, even outdoing them on occassion – IN YOUR FACE BOYS!!!

However, as the day wears on, the utter POINTLESSNESS of this starts to register: WHY am I here, on a GOD FORSAKEN airfield, bathed in sweat; crotch pounded numb against the tank, thanks to my throttle hand’s DILIGENT persistence to flick the throttle shut in midair?

My clutch hand is contorted into a permanent claw and my teeth worn down 2mm due to vice-like jaw clenching whilst my mind is locked in a hypnotic rythm: RELAX YOUR ARMS….. EYES ON THE HORISON…. LET THE BIKE DO THE WORK….. KEEP THE THROTTLE OPEN….. READY?...... DEEP BREATH..… clutch in…throttle open…clutch out…release brake…front wheel UP! UP!... F@@@@@@@CCCKKK!!! Involuntary flick! Throttle shut. Front wheel CRASHES down… … aaaand again: RELAX YOUR ARMS….. EYES ON THE HORISON….

By now, Mr Diesel could strip naked and do wheelies standing on his head and I wouldn’t pay him the least bit of notice. I have eyes for one man only: Jimmy Fireblade.

He seems to be everywhere at once (quite possible, considering he hares along the airstrip on one wheel at around 140mph!), constantly checking on our progress, riding alongside and giving advice. He even lets us ride pillion whilst he performs the most majestic of wheelies, giving you a very real demonstration of what it should look and feel like.

The most rewarding moment of the day, comes when I execute an almost respectable wheelie and looking up, see a grinning Jimmy watching, giving me the thumbs up. I could die right here, and go to heaven….

At the end of the day, all my fellow students – (what a lovely bunch of chaps!) are happy that they can confidently lift the front wheel in a controlled manner. A couple progressed to bringing it back down gracefully. And I’m happy that my performance was not a disgrace to womenkind.

Back at home, my Duke is waiting patiently under its cover for the daily commute on Monday: boy, have I got a surprise for it!